


Right Man for the Job

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awesome Sheriff Stilinski, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, College Student Stiles, Dom/sub Undertones, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Good Peter, M/M, POV Stiles, Sassy Peter Hale, Sharing a Bed, Sheriff Stilinski Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:06:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5146316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Stiles, let me be very clear here,” the Sheriff braced his forearms on the kitchen table and leaned toward his son. “This situation is dangerous. Something is going around eviscerating and eating humans who are associated with the supernatural. From what Peter tells me, two of the victims were magic users. The latest attack was just outside city limits. You match the victim profile, and this thing is way too close for comfort.” </i>
</p><p> <i>Stiles hated the worry he could hear underneath the seriousness in his dad’s voice. “I’m not likely to be targeted. And even if I was, I can take care of myself. I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Right Man for the Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TW_FallHarvest](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=TW_FallHarvest).



> Hey, so. I’m pretty new in this fandom, but tried to do the prompt I was given justice. When I started writing, I aimed for 3 – 5k, with an upper limit of 7. I then managed to completely smash every cap I set for myself and drove myself stark raving bugnuts in the process. *head-desk* My prompter had to peace out, but I hope that this awesome community will enjoy the product of my madness anyway. 
> 
> A very real thank you to BelleAmante for the beta job, as well as all the hand-holding while I was writing this. I couldn’t have done it without you. And a thank you to my ever-constant Ghost—who isn’t even in this fandom, and still threw ideas around with me when the writer’s block hit. 
> 
> Warning: there is a brief interaction wherein an original character spouts some homophobic and slut-shaming type things. Which is never okay. Ever. But that gets shut down right quick.

 

 

“Nope, not happening,” Stiles said flatly as he turned to leave. He was stopped by a familiar arm slung around his waist. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and counted to five. No matter how much he wanted on an instinctual level to fight against whoever or whatever had trapped him, he couldn’t. Werewolf strength made the urge futile, and the fact that it was _Scott_ made it downright impossible. “Let me go.” He was trying to escape the crazy, damnit.

Scott pulled back, but only far enough to turn Stiles to face him. “Stiles, please. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” The patented McCall puppy eyes were turned up to eleven on the Earnest Scale. His hands squeezed at his best friend’s shoulders.

“Look, Scott, I get that. Hell, I’m totally on-board with the whole not-getting-eaten goal.” Stiles’s tone was deceptively casual. “But this? This is not a plan. This is an epic clusterfuck waiting to happen. As much as I don’t want to meet this thing, your so-called plan sucks balls. I want you all to think for a minute and tell me how you’d feel in my place.” When Scott’s hands fell away, and the rest of the pack was frowning at him, he spat, “That’s what I thought,” and stormed out of the Hale house.

Stiles white-knuckled his steering wheel as he drove away from the preserve. Anger buzzed under his skin, making him twitchy and restless. By the time he got home, he wanted to throttle someone. His dad took one look at him from the kitchen and asked, “That bad, huh?”

“There’s a reason I’m the brains of the outfit.”

The Sheriff didn’t react. “So what’s attacking the good people of California?”

“We don’t know.” Stiles started to pace the hallway.

“What do you know?” the Sheriff asked, light and easy. If Stiles had been less agitated he would have recognized the tone.

“That the fucker is eating people’s insides—specifically, human insides. It’s not going after supernaturals, so most of the pack is safe,” Stiles muttered, fingernails scraping at his scalp.

“Hm. So what happened at the pack meeting to get you this worked up?” The Sheriff hadn’t moved from where he was leaning casually against the kitchen doorway.

“Oh, y’know, the usual—the ‘poor defenseless Stiles’ routine. Like I’m some freaking damsel in distress. Like I haven’t saved their collective furry asses more times than they can shake a stick at.” Stiles suddenly felt exhausted, righteous fury evaporating into frustrated weariness. He hugged his dad before heading up to his room. His bed was calling.

Stiles didn’t notice the look on his dad’s face as he trudged up the stairs. If he had, maybe he would have known to expect something sneaky. His dad was the freaking Sheriff for a reason.

As it was, however, he was blindsided when he came home from school the next day and found not one, but _two_ Hales sitting across from his dad at the kitchen table. Stiles blinked a few times, trying to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, and then gave the house a quick once-over. But, no, nothing was out of place—no extra rooms or missing furniture or unexplainable items—so apparently he was awake. He ran his thumb over his fingertips, counting silently. Ten. Definitely not a dream.

What the fuck.

“C’mere,” his dad called—and while warm, the tone brooked no argument. Stiles dropped his bag in the hall and kicked off his shoes before shuffling into the kitchen.

Eyes narrowed, disliking the situation immensely, Stiles took a seat on the side of the table where he could see the werewolves, his dad, and the door. “So,” he began, drawing out the vowel.

“So, there were some things that you left out of the story last night, kid.” And, right there, Stiles knew whatever came next was going to be distinctly unpleasant. “Derek and Peter here have explained what’s going on with this latest monster, and I have to say, I don’t like it.”

Stiles grunted. “I don’t like it, either.”

“And, while I understand your vehement rejection of the plan proposed last night,” the Sheriff continued as if Stiles hadn’t spoken, “I’m here to tell you that it’s a good one, and you’re going to go along with it.”

There was a moment where Stiles was speechless. But only a moment. “Dad, you can’t do this,” he said, outraged and pleading in equal measure.

The Sheriff snorted. “The hell I can’t. You’re my son.”

“Dad! I’m nineteen years old! I’m in college! Community college for now, but still! College! I’m an adult!” Stiles’s voice rose as his face flushed angrily. He deliberately didn’t look at the two werewolves sitting in his kitchen. He’d be tempted to punch one of them, and that would hurt his hand more than the face he hit. Bruised knuckles weren’t any fun when the other party didn’t have colours to match.

“Stiles, let me be very clear here,” the Sheriff braced his forearms on the kitchen table and leaned toward his son. “This situation is dangerous. Something is going around eviscerating and _eating_ humans who are associated with the supernatural. From what Peter tells me, two of the victims were magic users. The latest attack was just outside city limits. You match the victim profile, and this thing is way too close for comfort.”

Stiles hated the worry he could hear underneath the seriousness in his dad’s voice. “I’m not likely to be targeted. And even if I was, I can take care of myself. I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

The Sheriff shook his head. “This isn’t about whether or not you’re capable, Stiles. It’s also not about how old you are. Weren’t you the one who told me that pack is about protecting each other?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And weren’t you the one who told me that there’s no reason to be ashamed of needing protection from monsters that were bigger and scarier than I am?”

“Yes, but I _meant_ —”

“That means that you need protection from whatever this thing is, and you’re going to accept it,” the Sheriff finished.

“You _can’t_ be serious!”

“Stiles, I will formally deputize the Hales and assign them as your protection detail if that’s what it takes.”

“Both of them? I’d rather be eaten!” Stiles snapped.

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’ve already interviewed them and chosen one, isn’t it?” The Sheriff knew he had Stiles backed into a corner.

“Interviewed?” Derek parroted, frowning. Beside him, Peter smirked, faintly amused.

“Look, son, I know you’re a werewolf, but you didn’t _actually_ think that you and your uncle were going to come into my home and tell me who was going to watch over my kid, did you?” the Sheriff asked, brows raised. Derek looked a little sheepish. At least, that’s what Stiles thought the slightly-constipated expression meant, because he was pretty sure werewolves couldn’t get constipated.

“Dad, seriously, no. Derek would be like having my own personal thundercloud, and Peter is probably a bigger threat than the people-eater!”

“Which is exactly why Peter’s going to be the one to keep you safe.”

While Stiles spluttered, trying to find another angle from which to fend off the crazy, the Sheriff led Peter and Derek out. Stiles could hear them agreeing that Derek would watch the house overnight, while Peter promised to be back in the morning to take over.

This was actually happening.

Stiles let his head hit the kitchen table with a dull thunk. When his dad came back, he slid closer to his son and ran a callused hand over Stiles’s hair. “Look, I know you’re not happy about this. But if the threat was a regular old human, and the most likely target was known, the first step would be a protection detail or protective custody. You know that.”

Stiles sighed. “I know. But why does it have to be _Peter_?”

“Because most of the others in your pack are your age, disqualifying them for the job.” Stiles flew up at that, opening his mouth to defend Scott, but his dad cut him off. “No, listen,” the Sheriff raised a hand to forestall the expected protest. “Most of them are your age, and have their education to worry about, as well as jobs and sports. It leaves too many windows of opportunity.” Stiles deflated a little, but was still affronted on his best friend’s behalf. “And while Scott—bless his heart—would do anything for you, that doesn’t mean that he has the experience to keep you safe. Peter and Derek were born into this, and are older to boot. They have more experience, and don’t have the same obligations as Scott and the others.”

Stiles sighed. He’d lost this particular battle, he knew, but still—“That explains why it couldn’t have been Scott, or the others. It doesn’t explain why it had to be _Peter_.”

The Sheriff rubbed his eyes. “A lot of reasons, starting with the fact that I won’t feel the slightest hint of remorse for shooting him if something happens to you on his watch.” Stiles couldn’t hold back a huff of almost-laughter at that. “But, seriously—of the two, he’s the better choice for the job if only because he’ll be smarter about it. Derek’s too likely to try and split up or leave you behind to protect you, or try to martyr himself. Peter understands the value of a tactical retreat, and won’t leave you on your own, if only because he’d have Derek, Scott, me, _and_ Melissa on his ass if he tried.”

“Jeez, Dad, no one would ever find the body,” Stiles joked, ignoring the logic his father had laid out for him.

“Exactly.” A small smile creeped across the Sheriff’s features.

Stiles let out a groan, and pillowed his head on his arms. “You realize that even if you’re right and Peter is the best one for the job, I have no idea how I’m going to explain him to everyone? Because no way am I letting a potential threat keep me from going to class or the History Association’s monthly meeting.”

The Sheriff rubbed Stiles’s hunched shoulders. “You’ll figure it out.”

 

***

 

The next morning came much too early. So much too early that Stiles rolled over and ignored whatever his dad was trying to tell him in favour of more sleep. Between college and supernatural shenanigans, he got precious little of it. If it was important, his dad would leave a note.

He was almost asleep again when the bed dipped with the weight of another person, and the very last voice he wanted to hear said, “Rise and shine, Stiles,” pseudo-fondly.

“No,” he grumbled, refusing to emerge from his blanket cocoon.

And then Peter was sliding a gentle hand over Stiles’s shoulders—which was just, no, okay, _no_ —“I’m taking you out for breakfast so we can come up with our cover story. If you’re not dressed and downstairs in fifteen minutes, I will come up and get you myself. And you’ll be going whether you’re dressed or not.”

Stiles took the quickest shower of his life and was downstairs with a minute and a half to spare. He’d even managed to work a little product into his hair, so he didn’t look like the uncaffeinated, sleep-deprived college student he totally was. It was bad enough that he’d have to be seen in public with Peter, he didn’t need anyone thinking the creep had abducted him. His dad would end up involved, and just, no. This was embarrassing enough as it was.

That wasn’t to say that he was awake and out of his warm, welcoming bed _willingly_ , however. He communicated that through sullen silence until, halfway to the diner, Peter announced, “Stiles, you can either work with me here, or I will use your continued silence as permission to mine this experience for blackmail and opportunities to embarrass you.”

And wow, there was a terrifying concept. Stiles huffed. “Fine, just . . . can we wait until I’ve had some coffee and am actually awake? ‘M pretty sure I can’t think yet.”

“How on earth do you manage without coffee when you’re woken in the middle of the night by my nephew or the puppies?” Stiles wanted to punch him for the patronizing tone, but busted knuckles + typing = no.

And, well. Point.

“Usually whatever they have to tell me is horrifying enough that the adrenaline wakes me up,” Stiles explained, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet.

It was quiet for a minute or two, and then—“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this quiet.” Stiles gave a noncommittal grunt. Peter chuckled. “Alright, alright. Message received: no plotting until coffee.” Stiles gave another grunt, this one vaguely affirmative, and he didn’t need to look to know that Peter was deeply amused. He could feel it.

When Stiles shuffled into Mel’s Diner, he gave it a quick once-over. There weren’t many customers at seven-thirty on a Thursday morning. Glancing at Peter, he let the other man lead them to a quiet booth in the corner. Once seated, Stiles gave his breakfast companion a pointed look. “Just humans,” Peter confirmed quietly. Stiles nodded, and slumped against the booth.

Luckily, Becky knew Stiles, and brought him coffee when she came to take their order. Well, really, she was mostly taking Peter’s order, since Stiles nodded when asked if he’d have his usual. By the time Stiles and Peter were sitting in front of chocolate chip waffles drowned in syrup and whole wheat toast, scrambled eggs, and fruit salad respectively, Stiles had downed half his coffee and was more awake. Not entirely, but that was okay. Becky had topped him off when she brought the food.

“Your incessant jitters are starting to make more sense.”

“ _Rude_ ,” Stiles replied between bites of chocolate-studded fluffy deliciousness. “I don’t usually eat much for breakfast, but I’ve had the chocolate chip waffles at Mel’s since I was a kid. Besides,” Stiles wrinkled his nose and jerked his chin towards Peter’s breakfast, “we’re not all health-nut weirdoes like you.”

Peter raised his eyebrows over the rim of his own, much smaller, cup of coffee. “I have a very fast metabolism, Stiles. That means that I would burn through that pile of refined sugars you call breakfast in an hour and be hungry again. It makes much more sense to eat properly in the first place.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Whatever. My supposedly-poor breakfast choices are not what you woke my ass up to talk about.”

“Mm, no,” Peter agreed amiably. Too amiably. Stiles was immediately wary. “So, I was thinking—”

“—whatever it is, the answer’s ‘no’,” Stiles broke in. Peter affected a pout.

“Stiles, I’m hurt. It’s like you don’t trust me.” Peter’s innocent-face was unnerving.

“I _don’t_ trust your ideas. Your brain is like the spawning ground for all things creepy and ill-advised.” Peter grinned like it was a compliment. Stiles flapped a hand at him. “Whatever. So, I think our best bet is for my ‘Uncle Peter’ to be staying with me while I recover. Because, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m very clumsy and end up injured every other week,” Stiles drawled with extreme sarcasm. Peter nodded sagely, a faux-serious expression on his face. Stiles just knew the man’s lips were twitching behind the rim of his coffee cup.

“And what kind of injury would require my constant presence?” Peter asked, seeming weirdly genuine. “Not that you wouldn’t benefit from constant supervision as a general rule, but since you’ve made it thus far without, your excuse needs to be good.”

Stiles chewed a bite of waffles viciously, refusing to rise to the bait. He sipped at his coffee while he gathered his thoughts. “I’m not sure why you think you’ll be a constant presence. I have one of the pack in pretty much all my classes, so you’re really just going to be with me outside of that, and we both know that you don’t need to be glued to my side to keep me safe. Aside from that, I think that an injured hand or wrist explains the need for assistance. I mean, all kinds of things—including driving—become unreasonably difficult when you only have one hand and are used to two.”

Peter looked thoughtful for a moment before tipping his head in acknowledgement. “It sounds solid. But an injury like that would require some legwork.”

Stiles nodded, having already thought of that. “It shouldn’t be too hard to pick up a wrist brace. Hell, we might be able to get Deaton—or even Scott, come to think of it—to set me up with a cast, if it came to that.”

Peter hummed. “But to backtrack for a moment, I will be a constant presence for several reasons, not the least of which—”

“Oh my God, _Stiles_!”

Stiles whipped his head around and saw Helen. His guts suddenly felt heavy and cold. He loved Helen, but nothing good could come of running into her here. Not when he was with Peter.

And then he had his only escape route blocked off by 160 pounds of gorgeous history nerd as she promptly sat next to him and threw her arms around him. He sunk into the hug, because Helen’s hugs were like Scott’s in the way they made everything warm and safe while you were wrapped up in one. They were irresistible.

When they pulled apart, however, Helen caught sight of Peter and promptly squealed. “Are you Stiles’s boyfriend?” she asked before immediately turning to Stiles—meaning she missed the raised eyebrows and devious expression—and smacking his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?” Stiles started sputtering, but she didn’t give him enough time to refute the claim before she was once again talking to Peter. “I’m so sorry . . . ?”

“Peter,” he offered, charming smile on his face as he reached across the table to shake her hand. She clasped it briefly in a firm grip. “Whatever are you apologizing for, darling?”

“For Stiles.” She shot her friend a glare. “I can’t even count how many times I’ve told him that there’s no shame in being attracted to older men, but he hasn’t told anyone about you, and that’s not right. It’s unfair for you to be the dirty little secret.”

At that, Stiles finally found his words. “Helen, oh my God, _Helen,_ no. Just no, okay? That is not what’s going on here!” His cheeks were bright red in embarrassment. Unfortunately all he got for his efforts was another elbow to the ribs from the woman beside him.

“Stiles,” she hissed, “Peter is right here, and I have eyes. And I _know_ you. You would not be awake—and presentable, no less—at ass o’clock and sitting down to breakfast at Mel’s with a hot older man if you weren’t seriously invested. And if you have a better explanation for ‘seriously invested’ than ‘boyfriend’, I want to hear it.” When all she got from Stiles was a horrified fish-face and a rueful smile from Peter, she nodded and slid out of the booth. “That’s what I thought. I’m not letting you get away with this. Everyone with a phone or Facebook will know within the hour.”

Stiles was staring at the back of her glossy head as she moved toward the to-go counter. Then she turned to give her parting shot. “Oh, and Stiles? Make sure you bring him to the History Association meeting tomorrow night.”

Stiles let his head thump against the tabletop, wondering how in the hell he was going to explain to Helen that his “Uncle Peter” was in town. Maybe this was still salvageable. Their plan could still work. He didn’t have class until this afternoon—that was plenty of time to get fake-injured and buy a wrist brace. He could maybe even con a note out of Melissa for his professors in that time.

“I like her.” Peter paused. “If I had known about your preferences before this . . . oh, the _possibilities_.” He sounded delighted.

Stiles didn’t know whether Peter was referring to missed opportunities to be a creeptastic sleaze, or to their cover story. Honestly, he didn’t care. Stiles wasn’t speaking to him. He had damage control to do, preferably before Helen circulated impossible-to-stop misinformation.

Stiles continued not speaking to Peter as he finished breakfast and argued with Helen over text, trying to convince her that she’d met his uncle. No dice. It didn’t seem to matter what Stiles said; the fact that Peter didn’t correct her himself sealed it as far as she was concerned. Stiles was just digging himself a deeper and deeper hole. A hole so deep his dignity may never be found again, if the alerts lighting up his phone were anything to go by. He had no idea what the hell he was supposed to tell everyone once the people-eater was taken care of.

“You know Stiles, your little friend is right. Wanting to bed someone who knows what they’re doing is nothing to be ashamed of—it’s an excellent strategy for good sex,” Peter told him as they pulled into the Stilinski driveway.

Stiles glared across the shiny top of Peter’s car before stomping inside. If Peter wanted to be a dick about this—and of course he did, it was _Peter_ —then Stiles didn’t have to acknowledge his existence. It certainly wasn’t a requirement for Peter’s role as bodyguard/ babysitter.

Stiles continued to cold-shoulder Peter—it took effort when he wanted to rant at the weredouche, but he did it—until bedtime, when Peter was so far out of line that ignoring him was no longer an option. Stiles had been wrapping up his Political Science reading for the week when Peter came back from his shower and _slid into Stiles’s bed_.

Stiles blinked at him. “We have a guest room, you know.” He had to fight the urge to face-palm as soon as the words left his mouth. Peter had probably only done it to get a rise out of him, and Stiles was giving him one.

Peter fixed him with a glare that was in no way diminished by his damp hair or bare chest. “I’m aware. But it’s my job to keep your tasty insides on the inside, so we’ll both have to suck it up.”

Stiles squinted at Peter, trying to figure out if there was actual logic under the snark, or if it was just more snark. “Dude, you’re a werewolf, remember? Crazy enhanced senses that ensure I have no privacy if you’re in a thirty-yard radius? Any of that sounding familiar?”

Peter quirked an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Stiles, this might come as a surprise to you, but I’m a heavy sleeper. Always have been. If you want to stay safe, I have to stay here.”

Stiles closed his eyes, and decided to he’d deal with that . . . shortly. Trying to buy himself time, he took his pajamas into the bathroom to change and brush his teeth.

Shuffling back, he hesitated before getting into bed. “You’re pranking me, right? You don’t _actually_ need to be _in my bed_ to do your job—you can hear me from the guest room just as easily as you can from here.” Stiles hoped he sounded more certain than he felt.

Peter sighed, and stared at the ceiling as he answered. “Stiles, I understand that this is difficult for you. You have someone in the heart of your territory, and it wasn’t exactly by choice. But I really am a heavy sleeper, and I don’t want to deal with being shot by your father.” Peter stopped then, and looked at Stiles. “And as my nephew has made abundantly clear, supernatural beings can come through your window. Sleeping elsewhere is, objectively, placing you at higher risk than is strictly necessary.”

Stiles didn’t like the way Peter was looking at him. He didn’t want to think about why. Instead, he carefully climbed in next to Peter, making sure they didn’t touch. “I’m not so sure that sleeping in the same bed as you isn’t an unnecessary risk to my safety,” he muttered, trying to get comfortable. He didn’t look at Peter.

After a few minutes of anxious squirming, Stiles was more awake than ever, and tense as fuck. Consequently, he jerked and nearly crashed to the floor when he heard Peter’s muffled voice. “Your virtue is safe with me, but your life will _not_ be if you don’t go the hell to sleep.”

Which, yeah. _That_ was comforting. Stiles rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. It only took about thirty seconds of that for him to feel suffocated, so he rolled over onto his side, his back to Peter, and tried to take deep breaths. He wasn’t sure which was worse: turning his back on the predator in his bed, or trying to sleep while looking at said predator. Still fidgeting and anxious, Stiles was about ready to get up and grab one of his textbooks—the thing could either lull him unconscious, or he could do something useful with his inability to sleep—when Peter stopped him with a hand on the back of his neck.

Stiles stiffened, heart taking off like a racehorse out of the starting gate, but all Peter did was leave his hand there, hot and heavy on Stiles’s nape. Stiles, for his part, stopped breathing, unsure if this was the part where Peter knocked him unconscious or scruffed him like a naughty puppy. He breathed out shakily when Peter’s thumb started stroking rhythmic circles against the base of his skull, and his body seemed to deflate. He fell asleep with Peter’s thumb still stroking. It was . . . weirdly nice.

Stiles woke up hazy and warm, smushed into the mattress by the hard body plastered across his back. He squirmed a little, enjoying the warm weight and trying to remember who he’d brought home last night. He clenched his butt tentatively—which ground his erection into the sheets—but there was no telltale ache. Huh. So either they’d swapped blowjobs or he’d topped. Which. He did that sometimes, but Josh usually—

And then he remembered: he didn’t hook up last night. The body pinning him down had to be Peter Hale, Resident Creep and Weredouche of Beacon Hills. As much as Stiles wished the realization acted like the proverbial cold shower, he wasn’t that lucky.

Instead, Stiles decided to try wriggling free surreptitiously. Peter had said he was a heavy sleeper, so it was theoretically possible. But as Stiles tried to extricate himself, he realized it was a lost cause—not only was Peter a weight across his back, pressing Stiles face-down into the mattress, his face was also tucked in against Stiles’s hair, and his thighs bracketed one of Stiles’s own. He’d apparently also managed to wind an arm under the both of them and around Stiles’s chest.

Forget weredouche. Peter was a freaking octopus. Stiles groaned, then closed his eyes and bit the bullet. “Dude, I don’t think you could get any closer to me if you tried. And, no, that is not a challenge.”

“But it _sounds_ like one,” Peter rumbled, voice gravelly with sleep. Stiles was pressed down even further for a moment while Peter’s muscles flexed in a full body roll, and his dick gave a traitorous twitch. Peter chuckled, and slid off of Stiles slowly.

Too slowly for it be anything but intentional.

Stiles got up and headed for the bathroom without looking at Peter. He forced his dick down with a very brief, very chilly shower and did not think about waking up hard underneath the undead werewolf. He got dressed and headed downstairs for coffee and breakfast—in that order—and decided pretending Peter wasn’t intruding on his life and personal space was probably the best thing he could do to preserve his sanity. He’d sort out the mess with Helen and everyone else once the dust settled. He poured himself a mug, and decided that caring about the ways in which Peter Hale was screwing with his life were going to have to wait until he’d been properly caffeinated. It was a great plan, carefully thought-out and reasonably mature, and Stiles had every intention of sticking to it.

And then Peter had to open his fucking mouth.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He didn’t looking up from his laptop screen. Stiles gritted his teeth and drank his coffee. Silently. “Arousal is perfectly understandable, given that you woke up beneath a firm body.”

Stiles almost spat his coffee clear across the room. “Okay, I was totally prepared to just _not_ talk about this, given how creepy the whole situation is, but you’ve pretty much killed that. So, tell me, Peter, why _did_ I wake up with you all over me?” There wasn’t enough caffeine in him yet to deal with Peter’s particular brand of bullshit.

Peter glanced over, then returned attention to his laptop. “I had hoped that you were going to be reasonable about how we woke up this morning. Pity.”

“Answer the fucking question, or screw the people-eater, I will show you what ‘unreasonable’ truly fucking looks like.” Stiles kept his eyes on the ceiling and his voice even as he pictured all the ways he could kill Peter. Disembowelment was battling with wolfsbane-laced darts for the top spot.

Peter sighed. “You’re an outrageously restless sleeper.”

“And?”

“And you kept disturbing my sleep.”

“ _And_?” Stiles’s fingers were twitching with the urge to take this asshole down a peg or four. Evisceration sounded deeply satisfying, but it was also incredibly messy. Using Peter as a dartboard was less gory, but would probably do more damage to the werewolf’s pride.

Peter finally tore his attention away from his computer to glare at Stiles. “ _And_ I need sleep to do this job properly. Never mind that you were sleeping poorly, with all the thrashing and kicking and muttering. We were both going to be useless today if I didn’t do something.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that the answer was for you to roll me under you?” Stiles refused to feel guilty for how he behaved while unconscious.

At that, Peter rose from his seat at the table, and stalked towards Stiles. He stopped when he was just a little too close for comfort. “Put the attitude away. It’s not my fault you respond well to being pinned.” For all that the words screamed sexual predator, Peter’s tone was clipped and serious rather than creepy. Annoyed maybe, but serious. “I was only half-awake when I did it, and if it hadn’t worked, I would have tried something else. But you calmed right down, as pretty as you please, the moment I had you under me.”

Before Stiles could respond to that, Peter had picked up his laptop and exited the kitchen.

When it came right down to it, there really wasn’t a way to respond to what Peter had said. Stiles had always known the guy wasn’t playing with a full deck, but this was the most blatant evidence he’d seen of it since the wolfy whack-job had come back from the dead. A return to The Plan—ignore Peter whenever possible, don’t rise to the bait when acknowledgement became necessary—was really the only way to handle this if Stiles wanted to limit the body count.

So he let Peter drive him to class—thank God he only had the one on Fridays—and sat with Scott, glaring at his best friend when the puppy-faced bastard asked him how things were going with Uncle Unbearable. It was a glare that promised a royal ass-chewing later. Scott’s jaw clenched and his mouth thinned, but he nodded. Stiles was going along with this farce, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. And Stiles was not quiet about the things he disliked.

He managed to stay on-campus for a while afterward, holed up in the library to do some research for his English paper. He knew Peter was lurking nearby, but at least Stiles didn’t have to look at his stupid face or put up with any more smart-ass commentary. He managed to get a lot done, and was even feeling kind of settled by the time six o’clock rolled round.

Of course it couldn’t last.

 

**From: Hot Hist. Nerd**

_I swear to God, Stiles, if you don’t bring your bf to HA tonight, there will be hell to pay_

 

Stiles wondered why he always seemed to make friends with incredibly beautiful, utterly _terrifying_ women. And, actually, if one unstoppable goddess was torturing him, another might be able to help.

 

**To: Scream Queen**

_evry1 thinks im dating peter bc of helen. HA meeting in hr, wtf do i do?_

 

**From: Scream Queen**

_Milk it for all it’s worth_

 

**To: Scream Queen**

_ur missing the pt._

 

**From: Scream Queen**

_No, you’re missing the point. You have the chance to climb him like a tree. Peter won’t tell you no. He doesn’t have_ _the moral fibre_

 

**To: Scream Queen**

_LYDIA!? :O_

 

**To: Scream Queen**

_i don’t wanna bone PETER, OMG_

 

**From: Scream Queen**

_I never said you had to spread your stupidly long legs for him. But you have someone to be close with for now, and we both know you want that_

 

Stiles felt his heart start to race with what Lydia was implying. He swiped his clammy palms on his jeans before tapping out a reply.

 

**To: Scream Queen**

_what exactly do u mean?_

 

**From: Scream Queen**

_You go out clubbing every Saturday you aren’t swamped with pack business, and almost always take someone home. More often than not, it’s Josh. You want physical closeness, and clearly you prefer it with someone you know and trust_

 

**From: Scream Queen**

_I might be in another state, but I can see from here you’re lonely, Stiles_

 

**From: Scream Queen**

_Peter’s not good. I will never forgive him for what he did to me._

 

**From: Scream Queen**

_But he’s pack. And he’s always valued you, even when the rest of us didn’t. You could do worse._

 

Stiles stared at his phone. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, but the words on the screen stayed the same.

 

**From: Scream Queen**

_Let me know how tonight goes. And if you need help putting Peter in the ground, I can make sure he stays there this time_

 

Stiles could hear the rush of blood in his ears, and wondered why he ever thought Lydia would uncomplicate the situation. His screen had gone dark when Peter suddenly appeared, scanning the area for threats. When he found none, his expression tightened.

“Stiles, would you care to explain why you seem like you’re in imminent danger when, so far as I can tell, the most frightening thing in here is the décor?” Peter asked, very quietly. His face was placid in the way that meant “secretly furious”.

Stiles dragged in a shuddery breath. “Sorry. Helen texted me about the History Association meeting. Told me there’d be consequences if I didn’t bring you along.”

Peter hummed, and silently watched as Stiles packed up his things. He stayed a step behind Stiles as they headed to his car.

Stowing his bag in the backseat, Stiles collapsed in the front. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes as Peter pulled out of the lot. He was exhausted, despite the excellent sleep he’d had last night, and was dreading seeing Helen.

“What, exactly, is your problem with this?” Peter asked, breaking the silence.

Stiles’s eyes jerked open, and he stared at Peter’s profile for a moment. “With . . .?”

“You’ve been fighting against being guarded from the word go, but you’ve been fighting especially hard against me in particular. I want to know why.” Peter’s voice stayed even, and his eyes stayed on the road, but Stiles still felt like there was a spotlight over his head.

He took a moment, crafting his answer. “I didn’t want a bodyguard for a lot of reasons. Top of the list includes ‘I can take care of myself’ and ‘I don’t want to draw attention to the supernatural shit’. I’d also like to point out that this thing is going after pack-adjacent humans—for all we knew, I wasn’t even on this thing’s radar until I got myself my very own werewolf barnacle.” Stiles paused and took a deep breath. “And, well, not to be a dick, but you were pretty much the last person I’d have wanted for this job.”

“And why is that?” Peter’s tone was soft, soothing, and Stiles hated it. He wasn’t a skittish animal or some delicate flower. “We both know you don’t hate me. And while you’re not comfortable around me, you don’t actively dislike me, either.”

Stiles wasn’t sure what part of that to respond to first. “Do I hate you? No. Although I’m more than a _little_ creeped out that you think I’d kill you just because I hated you.” Peter snorted, but didn’t comment. “And, about the disliking thing? I mean, I can work with you. I can trust that you’re going to act in the pack’s best interests, but that doesn’t mean the actions you take are ones I agree with. I get that sometimes your ruthlessness is useful, because the only way for some threats to be taken care of is for them to be _taken care of_. But . . .” Stiles trailed off, trying to figure out what he wanted to say.

Eventually, when they were almost at the pub where the History Association held their get-togethers, he thought he’d found the right words. “I trust you in a pack context. I respect what you have to offer the pack. I usually like that you’re a sarcastic bastard, when it’s not making me want to punch you in the face,” Stiles said carefully. “But that’s not the same as being close to you. It’s not . . . you’re asking me to trust you with _me_ , and it’s not the same thing as trusting you to make sure I don’t wind up dead.”

Peter was silent as he parked. When he turned to Stiles, the shadows falling across his features made Stiles’s breath hitch. “I believe I understand the distinction. And, while everything you said rings true, I think we both know it’s not the whole truth.” Peter pinned him with a look that was less intense than his usual glare, but somehow felt more dangerous.

“It’s not my fault you can hear what’s true and what’s not. Just because you know when you’re being lied to doesn’t mean I owe you the truth. It’s your fault we’re in this mess as it is.” Stiles’s voice was low and ugly as he fumbled with the handle and half-fell out of the car.

Peter got out as Stiles slammed his door shut. Moving with werewolf speed, he caged Stiles in against the car door, although their bodies didn’t touch. Leaning forward, he whispered, “It was a perfect cover. We were caught unprepared, and got the best possible outcome handed to us on a silver platter. You said it yourself: we’re pack. So work with me here.”

Stiles didn’t look at Peter. “You gonna spell it out for me, or should I make an educated guess?” He kept quiet, not wanting to draw attention, but couldn’t help the way his jaw clenched.

Peter sighed, and moved back. Not far, but enough that Stiles could walk away, if he chose. “Stiles, you trust me to keep you alive, but you don’t trust me to play the charming boyfriend? Do you realize how ridiculous that is?”

Stiles felt anger rise in him like a tide. “Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t treat every human interaction like a game, like something you have to _win_ , I’d feel differently.” Suddenly, the anger turned to bitterness. “Because the part I can’t figure out here is what your angle is. And that’s pretty freaking uncomfortable, because I am one hundred percent sure that this is gonna come back and bite me in the ass. I just don’t know how, yet.”

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I like you, Stiles,” Peter said softly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “That being said, it’s entirely up to you whether or not we continue.”

Stiles squinted at him, baffled. When no further explanation was forthcoming, he huffed. “Continue what? Continue this conversation? This train wreck of an evening? The bullshit parade that is My Life with Werewolves?”

Peter’s face scrunched. If Stiles had to put money on it, he’d say that Peter was praying for patience. When blue eyes opened, they locked with his. “Continue our cover as romantic partners,” Peter replied.

“Is that an actual question?” Stiles wasn’t trying to be a brat, but, well.

“Of course it is. If you don’t want to, we won’t.” Peter said it simply. Like _anything_ about this was simple.

“So, what? You’ll go and I’ll be on my own?” Stiles was thrown by the sudden change in gears.

“Of course not. I’ll call Derek, have him take over. Just for tonight, while you sort things out with your friends.”

Stiles let out a careful breath as he thought it through. It was an appealing offer, but. His pack had made it clear that he needed protection—that they cared about him and thought him valuable enough to protect. His dad had made it even more clear that he felt Peter was the right man for the job. If Stiles was being honest with himself, he and Derek would probably have devolved to threats of grievous bodily harm by now. Yeah, Peter was an ass, but he wasn’t an _insufferable_ ass.

Stiles squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. “Yeah.” Peter raised his eyebrows, and Stiles nodded again. He was sure.

“Alright then. We need to go over what you’re comfortable with before we go inside.” At Stiles’s confused look, Peter rolled his eyes. “Your friends think we’re dating, Stiles. They’re going to expect us to touch casually, if not romantically.”

Stiles stared at the ground as his cheeks flushed. He scuffed the toe of his sneaker against the asphalt. “Nothing over the top. No groping, no tonsil hockey. PDA kept to a minimum,” he mumbled.

He startled when Peter’s hand brushed his arm, and looked up to see Peter frowning. “You need to seem as if you’re comfortable with me touching you, or this will never work.”

Stiles snorted. “Except for the part where I actually _am_ kinda uncomfortable with you touching me, sure, no problem.”

Peter studied him for a moment, calculating. “Would you be willing to accept a suggestion?”

Stiles shrugged. “Depends. What did you have in mind?”

Peter’s smirk wasn’t reassuring. “Open up the pack bond between the two of us. It’s not particularly strong, as you’re a human and I’m a beta, but it’ll be there. And it’ll help you feel more comfortable around me, as you’ll be able to tell where I am.” Peter paused for a moment, studying Stiles. “Depending on how strong it is, or grows to be, it might also let you gauge my emotional state.”

Stiles felt like his eyebrows were about to fly off his forehead. “And why would you let me know that about you? How much emotional info are we talking about, here?”

Peter shrugged one shoulder. “Hard to say how much. You’re human, but you’re also a consistent exception to the rule.”

Stiles was so done with this conversation. “That doesn’t explain why you would hand me so much potential information about you, but whatever. I’m not going to try to drag it out of you. I just want to get out of this fucking parking lot. So. What do I do?

“Close your eyes, and reach for the pack. Don’t try to sort the bonds into individuals at first.” Stiles wasn’t super-happy at leaving himself unprepared in front of the Creeperwolf, but his options were limited. And if Peter was screwing with him, well. He’d already confessed to being a heavy sleeper.

When Stiles nodded, feeling the warmth of the pack in his chest, Peter continued. “Now you need to try to separate them into individuals. Start with the Alpha, he’ll be the easiest to pick out. Then start combing through the others, one by one, until you find me.”

Stiles felt like an idiot, but gave it a shot. While he could easily pick out the Alpha strand, the others fuzzed together, too indistinct to separate, let alone identify. He kept at it, but eventually opened his eyes, frustrated. “I can’t.”

Peter’s expression tightened. “Can’t what?”

“I can’t do it. I can’t even pick out each pack member, never mind find you.” Stiles scrubbed both hands over his hair, digging at his scalp.

“Yes, you can.” Peter’s grip was gentle as he pulled Stiles’s arms down. His movements were slow as he released Stiles’s wrists and instead rested his hands on one hip and between Stiles’s shoulder blades. “Sometimes, you just need to be pointed in the right direction,” Peter said cryptically. Then he was pulling Stiles towards him until he’d fitted their bodies together, chest-to-chest and cheek-to-cheek.

“Oh my God, is this really necessary?” Stiles squeaked as Peter pulled him closer, the hand at his hip moving to wrap around his lower back and the other moving to cup his nape.

Peter’s amused huff felt strange against Stiles’s skin. “If you have a strong material understanding of someone, then it becomes easier to find them magically. If you take a moment and focus on me like this, finding our pack bond should be easy.” Stiles didn’t want to think about how sincere Peter sounded, or the way he seemed almost _fond_.

So instead, he focussed on Peter. Not that he really wanted to, but it was the fastest ticket out of the predicament they were currently in, so. No time like the present.

Stiles closed his eyes again, and tentatively slid his hands across Peter’s shoulders, feeling the breadth of them. He felt the heat of the werewolf’s body all down his front, the rise and fall of Peter’s breath against his chest and across his ear. Stiles felt Peter’s stubble rasping against his jaw, the uncompromising hold around his waist, and the strange gentleness of Peter’s thumb brushing against his very vulnerable throat.

When Stiles was familiar with the rhythms of Peter’s body—breath and heart and thumb—he looked for the bond again. He needed to put some distance between the two of them before this went to a shiny new level of awkward. This time, when Stiles went looking, he found it. The bond between him and Peter was so quiet and thin he wasn’t surprised that he’d missed it the first time. Still, when he reached out for it, it was solid, less fragile than it seemed. Once he felt sure he wouldn’t lose it when he stepped back, Stiles tried to move away. He only managed to shuffle awkwardly in Peter’s hold. When he craned his neck to look at Peter, he understood.

Peter was partially shifted, his eyes an otherworldly blue. He was clearly using their closeness to hide the evidence of his wolfitude. Which, on the one hand, good, but on the other hand . . . “Dude, put the high beams away, we’re gonna be late.”

“A moment, darling.” Peter stubbornly didn’t move away, although he—much too slowly—began to move, allowing Stiles freedom in increments. By the time he withdrew, Stiles was starting to get freaked, and Peter had regained control. Stiles gave him a look, but Peter merely placed a hand at the small of Stiles’s back and guided them into the pub.

They hadn’t been indoors more than a minute before a body was throwing itself at Stiles. Stiles was moving with the mostly-chaste kiss before he realized what he was doing or who had attacked him lips-first. Just as said familiar lips caused his brain to vomit up a name, they were interrupted by a curt, “Excuse me.”

Stiles pulled back, a little dazed, to see Peter giving Josh one of his nastier glares. Josh refused to be cowed, and laughed, slinging an arm around Stiles’s shoulders. “This is the boyfriend, I take it?”

“I prefer the term ‘partner’.” Peter’s voice pleasant and his face promised violence. “Speaking of, what exactly do you think you were doing to Stiles?”

Josh grinned. “Just saying hello.”

Peter hummed before turning his attention to Stiles. “Why don’t I get a hello like that?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Because I’m not as shameless as this asshole?"

“Ah, Stiles! I’m hurt!” Josh said playfully, pressing a hand to his chest.

Stiles ducked out from under Josh’s arm and rolled his eyes. “Mortally wounded, I’m sure.”

“Alright, you caught me. I’m not actually upset,” Josh conceded, his expression growing serious. “But I will be upset if you don’t join me for our standing Saturday appointment on account of Mr. Sexy over here.”

Stiles closed his eyes as he took a deep breath and tried to find where he’d stashed his patience. “Josh, this is not the time to subtly grill me about Peter. There’ll be time for proper barbequing later. Right now, I want to get to the back before Helen hands me my ass.”

Peter, the meddling bastard, refused to let the deflection stand. “Of course he’ll be there, Josh. I wouldn’t dream of asking Stiles to give up things and people he enjoys for me.” Peter paused, but Stiles knew the drama queen wasn’t done. The smirk was unnecessary confirmation. “Of course, that will be the last time you kiss my partner while he’s mine. I’m not a man who shares.”

Josh gave Peter a considering look that told Stiles he was definitely going to regret this conversation later. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Stiles had a momentary reprieve, however, in the form of Helen appearing to drag the three men to the back where the History Association had congregated. Helen gave Josh a shove towards a free seat, but personally steered Stiles and Peter to the end of a bench that would have comfortably sat two toddlers, but not a full-grown young man and supernaturally-built werewolf. And they were right across from her.

There was no possible way this could end well.

“Alright, now that everyone’s here,” Helen called over the dull roar of multiple conversations. “I want to thank you all for supporting the History Association, and for generally being a group of really awesome people. Which is how I know,” she paused to stare briefly at each student there, “that none of you will give Stiles a hard time about his boyfriend Peter. That’s my job—and believe me, I take it seriously.”

Stiles’s forehead hit the wooden table with a dull clunk, and everyone laughed a bit as he wished for the umpteenth time that he’d been able to play Peter off as his uncle. But for all that Helen’s little announcement was embarrassing, it served its purpose: Stiles didn’t have to talk about his mysteriously-acquired much older boyfriend. Partner. Whatever.

As the monthly meeting got underway, Stiles tried to lose himself in the familiar atmosphere, food, and company. But every time he’d just about managed to settle, Peter had to remind Stiles he was there—by joining the conversation, or stroking Stiles’s knee under the table, asking an irritatingly brilliant question that sparked off ten minutes of debate, or skating his fingertips up Stiles’s spine. Stiles could admit that Peter was playing the perfect boyfriend/ partner, that he hadn’t overstepped the limits. But Stiles would be hard-pressed to deny that he was battling intense frustration.

Because Peter might be acting the perfect partner, but that’s all it was— _acting_. Stiles wasn’t Peter’s anything. Peter was his bodyguard, and was only entertaining himself trying to get a rise out of Stiles while he did a job he’d been strong-armed into. He was screwing with the life Stiles was trying to build for himself that was separate from the pack, a life that didn’t include pants-pissing terror and bloodshed every other week. Peter was fucking with his friendships, his sleep habits, his ability to jerk off—and the worst part was that Peter kept _touching_ him with what Stiles would have called affection if it had come from anyone else. It reminded him of the way Josh touched him, easy and familiar, casual and comfortable, speaking of history and trust.

But he and Peter didn’t have a history that lent itself to ease or comfort. Stiles wasn’t used to Peter being close to him for reasons that weren’t related to life-threatening or life-saving. The only reason he didn’t twitch away every time Peter brushed against him was because the bond warned him before it happened, and he couldn’t afford to break cover. Not in a room full of people who would be only too happy to interrogate him.

By the time the meeting drew to a close, Stiles was more than ready to go home. Unfortunately, he couldn’t jump in Peter’s car and peal out, as he needed to speak to Josh before he left, and Josh was tied up talking to Celeste. So Stiles was waiting outside. With Peter.

He started to rock on his heels, bored and antsy, trying to ignore everyone around him. His friends from the History Association were swapping goodbye hugs and cheek-kisses, couples from the restaurant were leaving hand-in-hand or pecking kisses on each other’s lips, and Peter’s hand at his hip was dangerously close to his ass. “Suck” was not a strong enough term to describe how this night was ending.

Stiles was developing a serious case of the jitters waiting for Josh to get his tall ass outside, and was starting to wonder if he should go drag the flirt out. He was about to do just that, when Peter huffed, “Oh, for God’s sake,” and turned Stiles towards him with strong fingers under Stiles’s jaw.

Stiles had a moment to think _huh, no claws_ before there were lips on his. He was so shocked that he just . . . went with it. Went with the way Peter’s lips moved gently over his own, coaxing a response from him. With the way Peter’s palm covered the back of his neck—how many times had he done that now?—and his fingers scratched through Stiles’s hair. Opened his mouth reflexively when Peter’s tongue teased at his bottom lip. When Peter didn’t take the invitation, didn’t dip inside Stiles’s mouth, but continued to delicately trace the tip of his tongue against the inside edge of Stiles’s lips, Stiles lost it. Whining, he clung to Peter’s stupidly broad shoulders and tried to deepen the kiss. But Peter kept it light and eased back from the kiss, though he kept an arm around Stiles's waist.

Stiles rested his burning face against Peter’s neck. He couldn’t look Peter in the eye. He’d be hiding somewhere else if he had _anywhere_ else to hide, but Peter would just follow him. Because bodyguard duty.

When Stiles was relatively sure his voice wouldn’t crack like he was fourteen again, he asked, “What was that?”

“That, my man, was a kiss. One _hell_ of a kiss, from what I could see.” Josh’s voice was an unexpected blessing.

Stiles pulled back from Peter, and launched himself at his friend. Josh caught him easily with a laugh, wrapping Stiles up in a hug. Stiles took a moment, using his friend’s body to anchor himself. He knew those arms, that rumbling laugh and cologne. When Josh let him go, everything felt right with the world again, but Stiles couldn’t remember what he’d needed to talk to his friend about. Josh seemed to get that, because he bussed a kiss over Stiles’s cheek and told him they’d talk tomorrow. Stiles nodded.

And then Peter was pulling him towards the car. Where Stiles was going to have to face the Lupine Inquisition. Joy 

“So: Josh.” Jesus, they were barely out of the parking lot.

“That’s his name.” Peter hadn’t actually asked a question, so he shouldn’t have expected an answer.

“Mm, yes, I gathered. The part I _can’t_ seem to figure out is who he is to you, and how close the two of you are, exactly.” Peter’s profile indicated that he had his Serious Business face on, and that didn’t mean good things for Stiles. “Given that he kissed you hello, and how familiar you seemed to be with having him all over you, I’d be inclined to think you were dating. But if that were the case, the lovely Helen wouldn’t have immediately assumed that you and I were an item, so . . .”

Stiles groaned. “He’s my friend. My very gay, _very_ touchy-feely friend. That I sometimes sleep with.”

Peter darted a quick glance at Stiles before returning his attention to the road. “That explains a lot. Although not what your ‘standing appointment’ is.” They were at a red light, so Peter raised expectant eyebrows at Stiles.

He knew what Peter was thinking, and the worst part was that he couldn’t exactly deny it. “No, that was not a subtle way of asking if I was down to fuck. Christ.” Stiles looked out the window. He shouldn’t have to explain his life choices to Peter Spree Killer Hale. His voice was monotone as he went on. “Every Saturday that I’m not hip-deep in murder and mayhem, we go clubbing. I pick up sometimes. Most of the time, Josh comes home with me.”

“Good for you, darling.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me, Peter.”

“If you can’t tell when I’m being patronizing, then I’m out of practise.” There was a pause. “Sex is not only one of life’s greatest pleasures, it’s also quite a healthy pastime.”

Stiles ground his teeth. “How often I get laid is none of your fucking business. How about you say something useful, like telling me what the hell that kiss was about, huh?”

“Josh seemed like the type to issue goodbye kisses as well as hello ones. I’d already told him that your lips were off-limits, but it seemed unfair to deprive you entirely,” Peter responded, glib.

“Fucking jackass,” Stiles breathed. He popped the car door before it had fully rolled to a stop in the Stilinksi driveway, and barrelled into the house and up the stairs without a backwards glance. He pulled out pajama pants and a clean t-shirt before locking himself in the bathroom. It wouldn’t keep a werewolf out—it probably wouldn’t keep the people-eater out either—but the fact that it was locked made him feel better anyway.

Peter was waiting casually in the hall when Stiles stepped out, and he waved Peter into the bathroom mockingly. Peter looked unimpressed. Stiles went back to his room. He had at least ten minutes before Peter was out of the shower, and that was more than enough time to make sure the weretool wasn’t going to be messing with him in the morning.

When Peter came back from his shower, his expression was flatter than his hair. Looking away from the mountain ash that divided the bed down the middle and continued along the floor to create an L-shape, everything about Peter screamed _really?_

“G’night!” Stiles smiled as he spun himself up in a blanket burrito inside his werewolf-free zone.

 

***

 

When Stiles woke up, he was tempted to let the people-eater have him. Because he’d managed to not only un-burrito himself from his blanket, but to roll right over the mountain ash line and plaster himself to Peter’s back. What was worse, he was hard—and had probably been rocking his hips against Peter’s ass before he was consciously able to stop himself.

He slipped out of the bed and into the shower—another cold one, funwow—hoping against hope that Peter had stayed asleep and unable to give him shit about it. One look at Peter’s smirk post-shower killed that right quick. Stiles felt his face heat, and tried to stutter out an apology.

Peter stretched casually. “Not the worst way to wake up, though you left before it got good.” Peter’s sleep-rough rumble just made the whole situation worse, and Stiles would have bet significant sums of money that he was beet-red from the tips of his ears down to his sternum. Peter sauntered out of the bed and over to where Stiles was trying to prove the existence of spontaneous human combustion, splaying his hand low on Stiles’s belly. Stiles suddenly felt hyperaware of just how close those dangerous fingers were to his dick. “You only have to ask, you know,” Peter whispered.

And just. No. Stiles refused to put up with Peter’s head games this early. There hadn’t even been coffee yet

So he pulled away from the heat seeping into his gut and left the room without a word.

Stiles spent the day plowing through homework and texting Scott while trying to ignore Peter. While he successfully completed the readings for his English course and the research for his Political Science paper, ignoring Peter proved to be a much harder task. The wolfy bodyguard wasn’t loud, or attention-seeking—which sort of surprised Stiles, given the Hales’ tendency toward the dramatic—but he was _present_ in a way that Stiles couldn’t ignore no matter how much effort and Adderall he put into the task. It was the way Peter’s arm brushed his from where they were both sitting on Stiles’s bed reading, the way made absent-minded soothing noises when Stiles started muttering in frustration at his textbook. It was the way Peter’s hand pushed firmly against the tense muscles in Stiles’s shoulders before they’d started to ache enough to draw attention to the way he was hunched over.

The touches were nothing that Stiles could construe as inappropriate, annoying, or unnecessary. But that didn’t mean Stiles didn’t resent them. (In the case of the impromptu shoulder massage, he didn’t so much resent the pressure of Peter’s fingers as he did the fact that a) it was necessary, and b) that it was _Peter's_ fingers.)

Eventually, it was time for dinner, and Stiles had an excuse to put some distance between him and his overly-tactile bodyguard. His dad was at the station, and Parrish had promised to oversee the Sheriff’s dinner choices, so he only had to feed himself and Peter. Stiles was feeling the KD love.

But Peter had to ruin that, too.

“I don’t think so,” he muttered, plucking the box out of Stiles’s hand and gently herding him towards the kitchen table. “If you don’t want to cook real food, that’s fine. I can do it.”

Stiles took a seat at the table and eyed Peter suspiciously. “Why would you do that?”

Peter rolled his eyes as he set a pot of water on the stovetop to boil. “Stiles, were you awake enough to remember what I told you at the diner about werewolf metabolisms?”

Stiles grunted an affirmative, but wasn’t sure he believed it. That seemed too straightforward. Too un-Peter. Still, he wasn’t going to complain—it wasn’t all that often that someone cooked for him. So Stiles watched as Peter threw together a simple marinara sauce and cooked enough pasta to ensure leftovers. It seemed like no time at all before he was plating it and joining Stiles at the kitchen table.

Stiles couldn’t help the small moan he let out at the first bite, even though he knew it would make Peter unbearably smug. For something that only took Peter about half an hour, it was unbelievably good. When he mentioned as much, Peter shrugged. “Werewolf children tend to be picky eaters,” he said between bites.

Stiles wasn’t sure he believed Peter, but decided to accept that he wasn’t going to get a better explanation. Instead, he inhaled his dinner before packing up the leftovers and washing the few dishes they’d used.

Then it was time to get ready for his night out with Josh. Something he usually looked forward to, but was now causing anxiety to sit heavily in his stomach next to the pasta. Taking a deep breath and holding it, Stiles decided that he wasn’t going to let Peter suck the fun out of this for him. They were going to Jungle this week, and he would dress as outrageously as he always did. Because he enjoyed standing out in a good way, and because it always made Josh laugh and kiss him extra enthusiastically. And even if Josh couldn’t kiss him while he was pretend-taken, it would still boost Stiles’s confidence to see the way Josh’s eyes would light up.

Nodding to himself, Stiles pulled out what he wanted to wear, and then headed to the bathroom so he could shower and shave. Once he was dressed, he styled his hair and swiped glitter across his cheeks, but decided against eyeliner. It always ran, needing to be fixed halfway through the night, and Stiles wasn’t going to go through the hassle if there was zero possibility of pulling. Which, again: Peter’s fault.

“Hey Peter! You ready to leave?” he called from the bathroom. He didn’t want to face Peter looking like this, but unfortunately, he couldn’t leave his fake-boyfriend/ too-real bodyguard at home while he went out clubbing.

When Peter called back an affirmative, Stiles took a moment to gather his courage. Club night with Josh was about having fun away from supernatural crap and pack responsibilities. He didn’t have to let Peter change that. Even though him being there already had.

Stiles barrelled down the stairs and outside without stopping to look at Peter. The werewolf followed him at a more sedate pace out the front door and to the car, locking up behind him. When Peter still hadn’t said a word five minutes after pulling out of the Stilinski driveway, Stiles breathed a little easier, thinking he was in the clear.

Which meant he’d jinxed himself.

“You look quite fetching,” Peter commented, his eyes roaming over Stiles’s face while stopped at an intersection. “Why don’t you dress up more often?”

Stiles snorted. “Because glitter is a fucking bitch to get off? Because this is way too much effort to scrape together when I’m rolling out of bed for class? Because this isn’t really me, but I was outvoted by Josh, Helen, _and_ Lydia?”

Peter hummed, but stayed silent until they reached Jungle. They got in with no trouble—with a red wristband for Stiles, since he wasn’t legal to drink yet—and Stiles immediately beelined for the corner where Helen and Josh tended to set up camp. Peter followed. It was busy, but not packed—not like it would get later. Stiles doubted he’d still be around then. Staying until the place was packed wasn’t smart with the people-eater running around, and it’s not like Stiles could cruise the club-goers, so.

Stiles found Helen and Josh with the other Saturday night regulars at the corner table, and was hugging people hello when Peter caught up with him. Josh gave Peter a nod before promptly dragging Stiles onto the dance floor, but well within view of their friends (and one pseudo-boyfriend. Partner. One-person protection squad).

Stiles tried to settle into his usual dancing position with Josh, back nestled against his friend’s broad chest, but Josh had other ideas—a firm grip kept them face-to-face. Josh leaned in and ducked his head down so that his mouth was right by Stiles’s ear, and Stiles desperately wished he had the option to go home with his friend tonight. “Why didn’t you tell me about Peter?” Josh asked. As close as they were, they didn’t need to yell to be heard.

“It’s . . . the thing with Peter is really new, and it kinda came out of nowhere,” which was absolute truth, if not the whole truth. “I didn’t want to speak too soon, just in case, y’know?”

“I get it. Just promise me you’ll tell me if you need help. You deserve someone who’s good to you.” At that, Stiles couldn’t help squeezing Josh extra-tightly, just for a second.

“Promise. Besides, you’re good to me,” he joked, trying to smother the suspiciously fuzzy feelings that had sprung up in his chest.

“Damn right I am.” Josh laughed, groping Stiles’s ass. Stiles laughed too, mostly because he knew Peter was probably trying not to make flashy-eyes at Josh for getting up close and personal with what was supposedly his.

After that, it was a mostly-typical Saturday night. Stiles lost himself in the music, in the way his heart beat in time to the thump of whatever the DJ was playing and being passed from friend to friend as they danced. Occasionally he took a break to breathe and gulp down some water—and check in with Peter—but mostly he was swaying and thrashing on the dancefloor, forgoing thought for movement, the press of a body against his.

But eventually, the water caught up with him, and Stiles waved to let Helen know he’d gone to the bathroom. The place was starting to get busier, but it was still earlyish, so the line wasn’t bad enough to provoke drastic action. On his way back, he saw Helen talking to Peter at the bar, because unlike him, they were both old enough to drink. His heart started to pound, because those two were a bad combination. It had been scientifically proven. But as Stiles came up behind Helen, he couldn’t believe what he heard.

“—he’s always talking about them, you know? He’s always with his family, and they mean so much to him,” Helen was saying. Peter nodded, encouraging her, even as he caught Stiles’s eye. “And Josh and I, well, we thought it would be good for him to actually be nineteen sometimes. Because I know that Scott’s his brother, and he has his dad and Uncle Lazarus and cousin Derek, but he worries too much. So I’m glad that you’re okay with letting us do this for him.”

Peter was looking at Stiles with this intense expression that he didn’t want to think about, or name. He headed back out to where Josh and Andre were dancing. Giving himself up to the music was simple, easy. Everything Peter was not. Stiles needed simple right then.

Sometime later, when different songs and dance partners had bled together and everything was loud and good, Peter slid in behind Stiles, saying “I think it’s my turn now,” so close that his stubble soothed the itch where sweat was prickling Stiles’s skin. Stiles stiffened, losing the easy synchronization of his body with the music, and tried to pull away. Peter tutted and prevented escape with a forearm across Stiles’s stomach. “No need to be like that, darling. It’s alright, go back to the music. This song is a good one, easy to move to.”

Stiles snorted. This song wasn’t good in any conventional sense of the word. This song was perfect for a dirty grind—which, while not ‘good’, might fit a certain definition of ‘easy’. Peter knew it, too—his hips were fitted tight against Stiles’s ass, moving in a subtle rhythm.

Fuck it. Club nights were about simplicity and feeling good. He could be conflicted about it in the morning.

So Stiles starting moving with the pulsing bass, arching and letting Peter take his weight as the werewolf’s hands started to wander, his own laced in Peter’s hair. He refused to think about what they looked like, or how much shit Peter was going to give him about this later. He wasn’t going to think about all the reasons he shouldn’t do this. He was just going to dance.

He focussed on how good Peter’s hands felt—on his hips, his belly, sliding over his chest and catching a nipple—on how their bodies moved together, hips rolling in synch. He lost himself in the feeling of a body at his back, pressing tight and close because there was no such thing as “close enough”. He let himself clutch at Peter’s hair and neck, holding Peter to him even as he offered himself up to roaming hands.

Stiles didn’t realize the song had changed until Peter moved. He thought at first that Peter was moving _away_ , but Peter just circled around and slid a thigh between his own. Peter’s hands dropped to cup his ass, encouraging him to rut against the offered thigh. Stiles didn’t even try to resist temptation, rocking his hips in time to the pulsing in his ears. Peter’s hands were greedy, refusing to let go of Stiles’s ass or let the rhythm falter. Stiles felt his face flush, his head tipping back, as he grew fully hard in his jeans. Peter’s mouth latched on Stiles’s throat, sucking and nipping.

He felt his whole body tingle and light up. Everything felt amazingly good. The heat of Peter against him. The thump of the bass in his chest. The friction against his cock. The scrape of Peter’s stubble against his collarbone. The feeling of teeth at his throat. It might be enough to make him come.

But then Peter murmured in his ear, something Stiles didn’t quite catch over the music and his own distraction—the words “gorgeous” and “needy” got through—and it was like a bucket of cold water. Stiles jerked out of Peter’s hold, and nodded toward the door. Time to leave. Stiles shot Helen and Josh a quick text to let them know. He didn’t think he could face them. Not after he’d all but had sex in the middle of a club with Peter "Hell Didn’t Want Me" Hale.

Helen’s text— _GO GET THE D!_ —buzzed through as he and Peter were walking away from Jungle. Stiles refused to acknowledge that. Josh’s came through during the silent car ride home, and Stiles jumped on it. He wasn’t hard anymore, but he was still restless and jittery, unable to keep still and unwilling to talk about what had happened.

 

**From: Sweet-Cheeks**

_you ok? seemed really on-edge 2nite_

 

**To: Sweet-Cheeks**

_im fine_

 

**From: Sweet-Cheeks**

_dude, you’re the kind of keyed-up where i’d take you home myself, if not 4 peter_

 

**From: Sweet-Cheeks**

_make sure the dilf works you over hard, ok? you’ll never sleep if he doesn’t_

 

Stiles snorted, wishing he could let that one slide without comment too. Sadly, he knew better. Josh would never, ever let it go. He composed and deleted four texts before simply sending “not a prob”, while wishing that he _had_ gone home with Josh. But because of Helen and the people-eater and Barnacle Hale, Stiles couldn’t. Fuck his life, seriously.

Stiles leaned his head against the window and spent the rest of the drive home pointedly not thinking about how differently the night would have ended if he’d been able to leave with his friend. He didn’t speak. Peter didn’t, either. The silence was like a living, breathing thing in the car with them.

The silence remained unbroken as Stiles washed the glitter off his face and scrubbed angrily at the stubble-burn and blooming hickey on his neck, as Stiles changed into pajamas and Peter showered. It continued as they got into bed and carefully didn’t touch. But while Josh had been wrong—so very, very wrong—about what Stiles and Peter were going to get up to at home, he’d been right about one thing: Stiles was keyed-up. Jittery. Far too wired to sleep.

He had no idea how long he tossed and turned and twitched, but finally Peter had enough. He rested his hand at the back of Stiles’s neck and traced circles with his thumb, just like he had on that first night. It helped, but not enough. Stiles was still a twitchy mess.

Just as he was about to break their weird silence and apologize, Peter moved, hauling Stiles under him. Stiles fell asleep with Peter’s head between his shoulder blades and Peter’s body pressing him down.

 

***

 

Stiles arched into the strong grip at his hips, needy after so much teasing. One of those hands slid away, smoothing up his spine until it was pushing against where neck met shoulders. Stiles gave in to the pressure, until his face and chest were pressed to the sheets. He’d feel vulnerable, ass up and face down, but the man at his back made him feel safe, sheltered.

He shifted, and Stiles felt the nudge of his cock. He was so beyond ready that he was shameless about the noises he was making and the way he was dripping. He felt the nudge become a push, felt his body opening up, and prepared for the _burn-rush-yes-fuck_ as—

—Stiles woke to find that the frustrated tears he’d cried in his dream were quite real. And no wonder, since his dick was fucking aching, angry red and oozing precome. It would take maybe three strokes to get him off, and it might even be worth—

“Stiles.”

Fuck _everything_.

Stiles gritted his teeth, saying nothing as he buried his face in his pillow. Peter kept right on talking, leaning against the doorway. “Honestly, just take care of it. You won’t offend me”—offend him? If Stiles thought it would’ve offended Peter, he’d have jerked off in the shower the first morning he woke up hard—“and the frustrated arousal is now as painful for me to smell as it is for you to experience. So go get in the shower, touch yourself until you come, and then have breakfast with me. Coffee’s already brewing.”

Stiles refused to get out of bed until he was sure that Peter was back downstairs. As he waddled awkwardly to the bathroom and started the water, he considered what Peter had said. For a minute, he thought about how good it would feel to pull one off under the heat of the running water; the way his muscles would relax, the dopey-quiet of his brain after orgasm.

But when he thought about last night—about the way he’d just given in to Peter at the club—the arousal started to sour in his gut. Peter already had enough on him to make the rest of Stiles’s life awkward and embarrassing, what with the spooning and the ass-grabbing and obvious boners and _Helen_. Peter didn’t need to know anything else—not the sounds Stiles made when he came, not the way looked while riding the quiet buzz of a good orgasm, and not how often Stiles jerked off.

Because Stiles knew that if he gave in once, he wouldn’t have the self-control not to do it again.

So Stiles ignored the way Peter’s expression tightened, brow furrowing, when he came downstairs like a caffeine-seeking missile. He ignored Peter’s flat, “Funny, you don’t _smell_ satisfied,” without reacting. He ignored the way Peter tried to Hale-glare him into talking while he scarfed down Pop-Tarts and poured more coffee.

He continued to ignore Peter—going so far as to put on headphones and turn the volume up until even human hearing could detect what he was listening to—while he did homework and dicked around online. He was playing COD when Peter decided he wasn’t going to be ignored anymore, plucking Stiles’s headset off mid-mission.

“Dude!”

“Group text was just sent—there’s a meeting at the Hale house. It’s about our current pest.” Peter was curt, but still careful, aware that Stiles’s teammates could hear him. The headset had been forcibly removed, not turned off.

Stiles sighed, completed his round, and signed off. The drive to the preserve was silent, but he didn’t care. He was driving his baby again, so Peter could sulk or whatever it was he was doing. Stiles wasn’t going to think about it. Because thinking would lead to messy feelings, which Peter and all the other werepuppies would be able to smell.

In the end, the pack meeting was a bust. For all that it was supposed to be an update on the people-eater, there was a frustrating lack of new information. There hadn’t been any attacks recently, but according to Deaton the baddie was scoping out potential targets. Peter shot him down, eyes flashing, when Stiles suggested playing bait. The others sided with him, and even Derek said there was no need for drastic action yet. And that was the end of that plan.

The drive home was considerably more tense than the drive out. Stiles wanted his life back, damnit, and if he had to play the tasty morsel to do it, he would. He only had about a one in ten chance of dying anyway, what with having the pack as backup. His odds of surviving being in close quarters with Peter were much worse. The silence lasted when they returned to the empty house, the Sheriff on another late shift. Stiles didn’t try to break it. Neither did Peter.

But after a couple of tense, quiet hours, Stiles couldn’t stand it anymore. The quiet. Peter. Being targeted for the hundredth time. All the things he wasn’t thinking about. The frustration that had nowhere to go.

As a result, he pretty much did the unthinkable, and texted Derek to come with him on a run. Derek didn’t reply, but when he showed up at Casa Stilinski in track pants and expectant eyebrows, Stiles figured that was answer enough. They ran. Derek didn’t ask him any questions, and Stiles didn’t volunteer any answers. They kept running until Stiles couldn’t breathe and his whole body shook. Derek sat with him, waited until his legs didn’t feel like cooked noodles, and then they walked back.

Stiles thanked him before having the shortest shower of his life and crawling into bed hours too early. He fell asleep alone.

 

***

 

Stiles jolted awake with his heart pounding and his skin slicked with clammy fear-sweat. He tried to drag in deep breaths, but the nightmare was still too present, and his lungs refused to cooperate. Just as he was about to get up, shower, get a drink, eat, anything but lie there—Peter moved. Stiles was afraid for half a second that he’d woken the werewolf, but Peter was still dead to the world. His movements sleep-heavy, he pulled Stiles in tight against his chest.

Stiles decided not to fight it. Feeling the slow sleep-rhythms of Peter’s body was more soothing than a shower or snack anyway. He lied there for what felt like a long time, refusing to look at his clock or phone as he listened to Peter breathe and the wind comb through the tree outside his window. He didn’t remember falling back asleep.

 

***

 

When Stiles peeled his eyes open, he felt drained. He didn’t want to be conscious, let alone get out of bed. Sadly, there was class to attend, so. He took a moment to feel grateful for the lack of morning wood as he squirmed out from under Peter’s arm.

He didn’t bother with a shower, heading toward the coffeepot. It was going to be one of those days where caffeine, not oxygen, kept him alive. And there was no coffee in the bathroom. Stiles let himself slump, his cheek pressed against the countertop as he waited. He wondered if he should invest in a Keurig. He closed his eyes, lulled by sound of coffee percolating.

But he must have dozed off, because suddenly Peter was there, smoothing a hand down his back and coaxing him upright. He staggered a little, and Peter guided him to a chair. Stiles tried and failed to will himself awake until Peter set a giant mug of coffee in front of him. Stiles started drinking on autopilot, and was vaguely surprised when he realized that Peter had added just the right amount of sugar.

By the time he’d worked his way through the first mug and was pouring the second, Peter had made them scrambled eggs and toast—through the amount he put on Stiles’s plate was only about a third of what he dished for himself. Stiles was grateful; he didn’t want to eat, but needed the food to take his Adderall. He probably would’ve skipped meds and breakfast both if the choice was left up to him. As it was, he worked his way through the small meal and large second dose of caffeine.

Peter stroked over Stiles’s hair as he cleared the breakfast dishes, and Stiles nodded in thanks. He set the coffeemaker to brew a fresh pot while he showered, and came back downstairs much more aware, but still not awake. Luckily his Sociology lecture didn’t require him to be.

He sipped at his travel mug as Peter drove him to campus. It wasn’t until Peter’s “You’re awfully quiet this morning,” that he realized he hadn’t said a word since he’d gotten up. He looked at his lap, hummed in agreement. So he was quiet. It happened sometimes.

Peter didn’t push. Didn’t call his name or threaten to embarrass him in front of his fellow students if Stiles didn’t speak. He just let Stiles unfold from the car and said he’d meet Stiles after class.

By the time class was over, Stiles was awake, although he couldn’t have said what the lecture was about even if Argent put a gun to his head. Thankfully he’d taken notes instead of dicking around on Facebook. Unfortunately, being awake also meant being completely cognizant of all the reasons he was done with the world and everyone in it.

The short version of that list started with the fact that he was the kind of exhausted he felt in every muscle of his body, an aching weariness rather than simple sleepiness. He missed driving his baby and was done with feeling like a thirteen year old getting dropped off for school with Peter carting him around everywhere. He was frustrated and bitchy and well on his way to an _epic_ case of blue balls, because not only had he not been laid in weeks, but he couldn’t even jerk off thanks to the lack of privacy. The fucking people-eater was still shopping around for dinner, but other than that, they knew next to fucking nothing about this creep. The way Scott had been shooting him concerned looks throughout the lecture for _no discernible reason_ just made it all that much worse.

So when Stiles started walking towards the parking lot and saw Doucherton McSpoiled following Josh to give him a hard time, he just. Lost it. He shouldered forward until he was between Doucherton, and got right up in the guy’s face. “What the fuck is your problem?” Stiles’s snarl would have done a werewolf proud.

“Oh, look—you came running to fight your boyfriend’s battles for him. It’s so cute I could puke.” Doucherton mimed heaving.

Stiles was about four seconds from turning this guy’s face into a crater. “You’ve had a problem with me since I started hanging out with Josh. Why? You mad he got to me first? You wanted me, but never learned to share your toys?” Stiles felt a ping down the pack bond, and knew Peter was coming to see what was holding him up. He needed to finish this quickly. “Or are you just pissed that he didn’t wanna suck your dick?”

Doucherton went an ugly, mottled red. “I’m not some kind of fag, Stilinski. Don’t you people like to brag about how you can recognize your own kind? Shouldn’t you know better?”

“Again, I’m hearing the homophobic bullshit coming out of your mouth, but not any kind of reason why Josh or I get treated to your precious time when we’re so obviously _beneath_ you.” Stiles was half-yelling, starting to shake with rage. Josh laid a careful hand against his back, between his shoulders, and it was enough to remind Stiles that he couldn’t curb-stomp this ignorant asswipe to kingdom come.

“I’m not a homophobe, I just don’t think you cocksluts should be running around advertising who and what you’re doing.” Stiles decided that knocking this guy’s teeth out was just what the doctor ordered, and it must’ve showed on his face, because Doucherton kept right on going. “Oh, did that hit a nerve? If you want to fight about it, that’s fine. I’ll even let you throw the first punch.”

Well. It would be rude to turn down that kind of invitation.

Before Stiles had done more than curl his hands into fists, Peter was there, gripping the back of his neck in warning. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said evenly, looking a surprised Doucherton in the eye. “It might not look like it, but he packs one hell of a punch, especially when he’s this angry.”

Doucherton was clearly surprised, but didn’t let it unbalance him for long. “Really, Stilinski? You need your dad to fight your battles for you?”

Peter grinned, and Stiles wasn’t imagining the way his teeth were just a little too pointy to make the expression innocent. “Oh, you misunderstand. He’s not my son, or any other blood relation. He’s my partner.” Peter’s hand slid down Stiles’s back to wrap around a hip in a very proprietary manner. It was Peter’s hand, more than his words, that delivered the message.

“Jesus Christ, do you people travel in a herd or something?”

“You know, I completely understand why Stiles wants to beat you bloody. But the fact that you’re engaging in discriminatory behaviour is quite enough to ensure that you’re punished without the nuisance of bloodstains and bruised knuckles.”

Stiles could feel Josh fighting down a smile behind him. Everyone except Doucherton himself knew where Peter was going with this, and they could almost taste the victory.

“What exactly do you think is going to happen to me?” Doucherton sneered.

Peter pretended to think about that for a moment. “I think that Stiles, Josh, and I will be lodging a formal complaint with the college. Discriminatory behaviour—including harassment, bullying, and intimidation—on the basis of sexual orientation is against the student code of conduct.”

Doucherton spluttered. “You can’t do that!”

Peter nodded, pretending to agree. “You’re quite right. I could always help the boys file a formal complaint with the Beacon Hills Police Department. What you’ve done qualifies as a hate crime.” And damnit, Peter was smooth.

“No one would ever take it seriously.”

Stiles didn’t have to be a werewolf to realize that was a desperate hope rather than a confident statement. He decided to put the nail in the coffin lid.

“Well, considering that my dad is the Sheriff, and that half of the deputies in the department helped raise me after my mom died, I’m pretty sure that they’d take it very seriously.” Stiles was grinning so hard his face hurt. He probably looked utterly deranged.

Peter hummed. “And, on that note, I think it’s time we made some formal complaints. Come along, darlings.” And then Peter was steering Stiles away, towards his car, Josh bobbing along in their wake.

Once they weren’t in hearing range anymore, Josh whooped. “That was as ridiculous as it was awesome. You two assholes are meant for each other. God, I wished I’d taken a picture of his face when you mentioned your dad.”

Peter shot him a mild glare. “You _do_ realize that I’ll be filing a formal complaint with BHCC, and that the administration will want to talk to you to confirm?”

“Wha—seriously?”

“Never make idle threats,” Peter advised as he slid behind the wheel. “If you tell someone you’re going to make their life a living hell, you have to follow through.”

Peter pealed out of the parking lot, leaving a stunned Josh behind. Stiles expected him to drive over to the admin building, but wasn’t exactly disappointed when Peter turned towards home. Stiles’s leg wouldn’t stop bouncing as he tried to shake off the rage that had gripped him.

Once they’d returned to Casa Stilinski, Stiles paced from the front door to the kitchen while Peter lodged the promised complaint by phone. Stiles was a little surprised he wasn’t expected to corroborate, but he’d give a statement when they investigated Peter’s claim. He could probably do it then without yelling, so. Later was good.

He tried to work on his Political Science paper, but couldn’t focus. He switched gears, hoping to read ahead in English, but wasn’t taking in the words on the page. Video games it was.

But he couldn’t seem to focus on those, either. The urge to move, run, hurt something was too strong. It made his body restless and his brain buzz with static. He’d given up on being productive and was just a twitching mass of limbs as he channel-surfed on the couch. And cruised Tumblr. At the same time.

At least, he was—until Peter settled beside him and confiscated the remote. Before Stiles could protest, Peter was queueing How to Get Away With Murder on Netflix. Stiles snorted. “Okay, firstly, the fact that you immediately honed in on this show is both hilarious and disturbing. Secondly, since when do you know how to work Netflix?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I might have been in a coma for six years, but I’m not _Derek_. I have actually made an effort to catch up with what was going on in the world.”

Stiles cracked a real smile at that. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t get any ideas.”

But as he made to stand up, Peter’s arm around his back held him in place. “If you’re that worried, perhaps you’d better supervise me.”

While he didn’t know what Peter’s agenda was—though Peter definitely had one—he was relieved to be on familiar snarky ground. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t get into the show. He also couldn’t stop fidgeting. Not until Peter pulled him sideways, letting him pillow his head on Peter’s thigh. Peter’s hand skated up and down Stiles’s side in an absent-minded rhythm, and after an episode and a half he found himself dozing.

They passed the rest of the afternoon that way, only moving when Peter’s stomach rumbled behind Stiles’s head, prompting them to get up and make dinner.

 

***

 

It had been a quiet day. Too quiet. Stiles should have known better. Although, to be fair, the days had been nothing _but_ quiet since he’d gained a werewolf bodyguard.

The attack came in the gathering dusk as they headed to the car. Stiles had been working on a project at the library for hours, and was about ready to murder the one girl in his group. Peter was leading him through a shortcut between two buildings, because he’d refused to pay for premium parking when he had no idea how long Stiles was going to be “stuck with the idiots” and Stiles was lagging behind.

He heard quiet footsteps behind him, but before he could turn, someone kicked at the back of his knee, sending him sprawling. He rolled to the side, narrowly dodging being stabbed in the gut as his attacker flung himself where Stiles had been just a moment before.

Stiles had a few short seconds to see who was trying to kill him this week before Peter knocked the cannibal away, but what he saw made him fight not to be sick.

The guy was human. Crazier than Peter had ever been, without a hint of sanity in his darting, bloodshot eyes, and the stolen, ill-gotten magic roiling inside him made Stiles’s skin crawl, but. Human.

Stiles thought that made it worse, the way he screamed “Your sparkly insides are mine!” until Peter knocked him out. That this guy didn’t have the excuse of being born a flesh-eating monster, or being cursed by someone with a grudge. This guy was normal, once. And then one day he started eating people.

Stiles watched from the ground as Peter pulled a couple of zip ties out of his jacket pocket and efficiently bound the cannibal. He gave Stiles a quick once over before hitting the speed-dial on his phone.

“Derek? He’s fine, but we’ve got the cannibal here, and he definitely knew who Stiles was and how to find him.” There was a pause, and Peter’s eyes narrowed even though Derek couldn’t see it. “ _Yes_ , I’m sure, but I can’t take him home right now and I can’t leave this lunatic unsupervised. I’m taking him back to my apart—think about it, Derek. If this guy knows who Stiles is, then he knows where he lives. Call the Sheriff, tell him to be on guard, get the pack to help you collect the cannibal, and give Deaton a call to let him know you’ll be bringing an insane magic-thief to the clinic.” Another pause. Shorter this time. “Yes, you need to involve Deaton. This guy is human, and I have no idea what he’s capable of. We don’t need any more suspicious deaths or disappearances. If the police can handle him, wonderful, but if not, we need to know.” Peter cut a glance over to Stiles before speaking again. “Call the Sheriff, the pack, and Deaton, in that order. We have to get out of here before we’re seen.”

Stiles accepted the hand Peter offered, letting the werewolf haul him to his feet. He distantly noted that his knees stung. Definitely bruised. He jerked his chin toward his would-be murderer. “We’re just gonna leave him here?”

“Derek is only a few minutes out, and we need to get you somewhere safe,” Peter answered, herding Stiles toward his car.

“You don’t actually think there’s more than one, do you?”

Peter glanced at him, the skin around his eyes tight. “We don’t know, and right now I don’t feel comfortable taking the risk.” He unlocked the car’s doors and got in.

Stiles nodded. “Fair enough. But why your place?” he asked as he fumbled to buckle his seatbelt.

Peter’s face communicated so much disbelieving sass Stiles was amazed he didn’t strain something. “If he knows enough to ambush you randomly, he knows where you live—and that means he could have laid a trap for you. My apartment is unlisted, and protected besides. He won’t be able to find you there.”

Stiles felt his heart start to pound. “My dad . . .”

“Is a very capable adult, and a trained officer of the law besides. You can trust him to keep Derek safe when they sweep the house,” Peter said smoothly.

“Really?”

Peter turned towards him briefly. “Have you seen that kid’s luck?”

Stiles choked out a nervous laugh. “Point.”

The rest of the short drive was spent in a silence that wasn’t tense, for all that it was charged. Stiles couldn’t help the way he twitched and jerked; his body was still flooded with adrenaline, making him feel like badly-contained electricity.

By the time Peter had parked outside his apartment complex, Stiles was starting to feel more normal. Or, less like crawling out of his own skin, anyway. But he was still shaking, his fingers clumsy as they clawed at the door handle. As he clambered out of the car on jelly legs, Peter slipped a hand around the back of his neck and guided him inside the building. Peter’s grip didn’t let up as he led Stiles down the first-floor hallway and into his apartment.

Stiles tried to see as much of Peter’s living space as possible while Peter steered him toward the kitchen. Stiles tuned out Peter’s words as he took in the unexpectedly homey atmosphere. The apartment was older, the hardwood worn and kitchen countertops a little dated, but the walls were hung with pictures and art, and the couch Stiles had glimpsed looked wickedly comfortable. He was itching to browse the bookshelves, see what information Peter might’ve been trying to k—

“Jeans off.”

“What?” Stiles squawked, wishing he’d been paying more attention.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Your jeans, Stiles. They need to come off.”

Stiles felt like an anime character, his eyes were so wide. “Why?” Stiles was a little afraid of the answer. Peter huffed, and popped the button of Stiles’s jeans. Stiles batted his hands away. “Whoa, there, Uncle Bad Touch!”

Peter fixed him with an irritated glare. “Stiles, I want to check your knees, and I can’t do that with your jeans in the way.”

Oh. Knees. Those things halfway up his legs that he’d smashed against concrete and were currently made of pain. That made sense.

Stiles flushed, embarrassed, and let Peter finish unfastening his pants and ease them over his hips. When they were about halfway down his thighs, Peter gripped him by the waist, and hoisted him up to sit beside the sink. Stiles yelped in surprise, both at the unexpected manhandling and the shocking cold of the counter under his ass.

“So, why are you peeling me out of my clothes in your kitchen?” Stiles wondered why Peter was unlacing his shoes and pulling them off for him, but he wasn’t complaining.

“It’s a better height for this, for one thing, and I wasn’t sure if you’d need ice or not,” Peter replied absently, pulling the jeans off all the way. His hands were gentle as they slid under Stiles’s right thigh and cupped the calf, raising the knee for inspection. The hand under Stiles’s thigh slid away so he could run gentle fingertips across the battered kneecap.

The touch was stupidly intense, and Stiles felt the familiar tug of arousal gathering. His body was still buzzing with adrenaline, he’d been drowning in sexual frustration for over a week, and here was Peter, between his splayed legs and touching bare skin. Stiles closed his eyes and practised breathing, trying to keep his dick soft despite the telltale heaviness.

“It’s alright, Stiles,” Peter whispered, dragging his palms up the inside of Stiles’s thighs, stopping when he reached fabric. Stiles arched into the touch before he could stop himself.

“I, I don’t—” Stiles took a deep breath, and tried again. “I’m sorry about this, just hand me my pants and we’ll forget this ever hap—” Stiles broke off in a moan as Peter dipped inside his boxers and took hold of his cock.

“Nonsense. What kind of partner would I be if I didn’t give you a hand?” Peter’s tone was light, but his expression was hungry, and he gave Stiles a squeeze.

“The fake kind?” Stiles squeaked, fighting the urge to melt against the cabinets as Peter started pumping lazily. “Oh God.” Peter pressed slightly-rough fingers to that spot just below the head that made Stiles see stars.

Peter sighed heavily and shook his head before cupping Stiles’s neck and pulling him into a kiss. It was unexpectedly sweet, mostly closed-mouthed, with just a hint of teeth as Peter sucked his bottom lip. When Peter pulled back, Stiles forced his eyes open. What he saw wasn’t helping with the feeling that he wasn’t getting enough air.

Peter was looking at him with naked want, which Stiles could understand—in the abstract, at least. The man was expertly jerking him off, and had been smelling Stiles’s arousal for days on end. The want could be explained, even if it was _Stiles_ that Peter was looking at. It was the reverence that stole the breath from his lungs. Peter was looking at Stiles like he was the most beautiful thing imaginable, like something Peter wanted to keep and protect and worship.

He couldn’t handle that. He didn’t have the brain power to deal with what it meant, that Peter Hale would look at him like that with a hand on his dick. He shut his eyes, and gave in to the sensations. To the way Peter’s firm strokes made his thighs tense in aborted jerks, the way he started to fall forward and slumped against Peter’s chest, the feel of Peter’s hand on the back his neck. He pressed his face to Peter’s shoulder, trying to muffle his moans.

His balls ached, an angry reminder of all the frustration he’d been living with. The ache intensified as Peter maintained his unhurried rhythm. Given the unpleasantness that was rushing up to meet him, Stiles wasn’t sure if he should be grateful that Peter wasn’t in any particular hurry, or irritated that he was only delaying the inevitable.

But despite Peter’s languid pace, Stiles’s orgasm came all too soon, ripping through him painfully as he choked out a half-sob. When it was over, he felt gutted—a hollow where the warm-glow usually sat. Peter’s hand was still resting against his spent dick, not moving, and it was oddly soothing. As was the way Peter thumbed gently at the pulse in his throat.

It might’ve been why Stiles felt tears prick his eyes, why he couldn’t keep the distressed whine from escaping.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Peter murmured. He withdrew his hand from Stiles’s boxers, and pulled Stiles closer to him. “Wrap your legs around me.”

Stiles did, wondering why he was falling apart now, and all over Peter. He wasn’t surprised when Peter hefted him off the counter and took off towards the bedroom, but he hadn’t quite expected it, either. He wasn’t proud of the way he clung. Or of the way he couldn’t look Peter in the eye.

It made things kind of awkward when Peter laid him down across the bed. Stiles tried to stay close, to keep his face tucked against the side of Peter’s head, but Peter pressed a quick kiss to the skin under his jaw and peeled Stiles off carefully. Stiles kept his eyes scrunched shut and his head turned to the side as Peter stripped off his sticky boxers. He fought with the urge to cover himself.

“Sit up for me.” Peter’s voice was warm and low, a not-quite-whisper. Stiles wanted to refuse, but he couldn’t argue with that warmth. He complied, eyes still resolutely shut, the blood colouring his cheeks only partly from embarrassment. Peter pulled his shirt over his head, and then gently pressed Stiles back down.

A hot tongue dragging across his come-coated happy trail shocked Stiles into opening his eyes. Peter grinned at him, face lit up with mischief. “I’m going to clean you up, and then we’re going to go to sleep. It’s been a long day.” Peter dropped a kiss on his hip before sliding off the bed.

Stiles didn’t know what he was feeling, only that it was too much. He rolled onto his side, curling up on Peter’s bed, still sticky with the evidence of what they’d just done. Of what he’d let Peter do. Of what Peter wanted to do, maybe.

Evidence that Peter erased when he came back, warm washcloth in hand. Stiles tried to ignore how vulnerable he felt, more naked than he’d ever been in his life in front of Peter Hale, and how he twitched under the gentle swipes of the cloth. Arousal was building again, pricking at his legs and belly and spine, undiminished by the perfunctory orgasm of five minutes ago. Peter didn’t comment, handing Stiles a pair of pajama pants and retreating to the bathroom to change.

When they were both come-free and dressed for sleep, they settled in Peter’s bed. Stiles didn’t protest when Peter spooned him, choosing to snug back against the comforting heat of the werewolf’s body. It was a strange sort of comfortable, being tangled up with Peter—his arm under Stiles’s head and free hand petting Stiles’s chest. It was nice, familiar after the last week, and Stiles expected to fall asleep in five minutes, tops.

He didn’t.

If anything, Stiles felt more and more awake. It’s like that orgasm flipped a switch, leaving him hungry for more. He was hyperaware of his body, of all the bare skin pressed against his own. The slow stroke of Peter’s fingers across his sternum made him want.

And just like that, the arousal that had receded but not diminished in the slightest roared through him. Stiles bit his lip as his cock started to fill, idly wondering if it’d be the kind of half-assed erection he could ignore. He decided it probably wasn’t when he went fully hard as Peter’s hand stroked across his abs.

“Sorry,” he breathed, the dark of Peter’s bedroom making even a whisper seem too loud.

Peter nipped at the curve of his exposed shoulder. “No need. I expected as much—it would be normal for anyone after the frustration of the last week, never mind someone with your sex drive.”

Stiles tensed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you constantly smell like low-level arousal, and it’s delicious.” Peter nosed at the curve of his neck. “But when it’s full-blown, like now, it’s an awful temptation.”

“You don’t have to—I can—” Stiles stuttered, unsure of what it was he was trying to say.

“Do I strike you as the kind of man who doesn’t know what he wants?” Peter asked as his free hand tugged the borrowed sleep pants down Stiles’s hips.

And, well. When he put it like that.

Stiles shimmied, helping Peter lower his pajamas before kicking them off entirely. Peter pulled away for a moment before returning to wrap a slick hand around his renewed erection. Stiles closed his eyes and sighed, revelling in the feeling. It was better than the last time, without the ache undercutting the pleasure, and without clothing to restrict his movements or act as a barrier. The smooth glide of the lube was nice, too.

Stiles let himself fall into how good it felt, rocking his hips into the tight circle of Peter’s fist. Peter paid special attention to that spot just under the head that had rendered Stiles speechless in the kitchen as he nipped and bit none too gently at Stiles’s shoulder. It was blissful. Sweet tension snaked up his spine.

But the tension kept building, long past where Stiles expected it to break. He grew heated, started to sweat, and rocked his hips frantically while leaning into Peter’s teeth. It wasn’t enough. Stiles was panting as he raised a hand to tweak at his nipples, and let out a breathy moan when doing so sent a sizzle of _yesgodfuck_ crackling across his nerve endings. It still wasn’t enough.

“Peter, I can’t—I need,” Stiles whined. He was pushing his body, trying to force himself to come, but it wasn’t working. He was missing the thing that would get him there.

“Shh, it’s alright, sweetheart.” Peter pressed soothing kisses to Stiles’s neck. “I’ll give you what you need. You just have to tell me.”

Stiles let out a wretched noise. He didn’t know if he could. He felt his cheeks burn hotter.

Peter let go of his cock—and Stiles couldn’t stop his disappointed mewl—to turn him over. They were face to face, and Stiles didn’t like it. It was easier when Peter was strong and heavy against his back, when Peter couldn’t see his face.

But his eyes were soft, even though his lips were pursed. He brought his non-lubed hand up to Stiles’s face, and brushed his knuckles against Stiles’s cheek. “Whatever it is, it’s yours. You just need to tell me.”

Stiles closed his eyes, refusing to give in to the itch of frustrated tears. He took Peter’s slick hand and guided it to his ass, letting Peter’s fingertips tease at the cleft. “In me.” It came out a broken, desperate thing.

Peter kissed him, still sweet, with only the barest hints of tongue, before moving down to suck at his throat. Peter coaxed his leg up, hitching it over Peter’s hip, careful not to jostle his sore knees. He took Stiles’s hand and poured a little lube into the palm. “You just stroke that pretty cock of yours. I’ll take care of the rest.” Stiles obeys.

With his leg hitched up, his body was open to Peter’s slippery fingers. Peter wasn’t hesitant when he reached Stiles’s opening; he massaged firmly, slicking it up. When he sunk a single thick finger into Stiles’s body, his hand was as sure as it had been on Stiles’s cock.

Stiles gave a rattling groan at the relief of being filled. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it, needed it, until Peter gave it to him. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out as Peter stroked at his insides, finger curling before pulling out. He let out an almost-shout and tightened his grip on his dick when Peter pressed two fingers into him, pushing in to the second knuckle. It didn’t hurt, but it’d been a couple of weeks, and the sensation was shocking.

Peter seemed to understand that Stiles’s noises weren’t of pain, because he twisted and scissored his fingers mercilessly. Stiles was so lost in the feeling of Peter’s fingers inside him, Peter’s lips on his throat, that he wasn’t paying attention to the hand working his cock, letting muscle memory take over.

Peter wasn’t being gentle, but Stiles relished the sting, the edge of _too-much_ it created. His body flexed, rolling back against Peter’s fingers in a rhythm that felt illegally good. Stiles didn’t know how long they went on like that, with Peter’s fingers forcing him open while he wordlessly begged for more, but Peter must have sensed some kind of shift—because, without a word, he drove his fingers in hard, banging into Stiles’s prostate.

Stiles clenched, gasping, and Peter started massaging that spot, walking his fingertips over it relentlessly. Stiles started to spasm and shake, heat blooming in his pelvis and spreading outwards through his body like a wave as he teetered on the edge of orgasm. He wasn’t sure exactly what tipped him over—a well-timed stroke across his prostate, the way he thumbed across the head of his cock on the upstroke, the feeling of Peter’s teeth scraping down his jugular—but as his body locked up, every muscle fluttering and nerve ending singing a Hallelujah chorus as he dribbled come across his knuckles, he didn’t care.

For long moments, he lay there heaving in shuddering breaths, eyes closed as Peter dotted kisses across his jaw, shoulders, collarbones. Peter waited until Stiles had fallen limp, the violent aftershocks reduced to an occasional twitch, before gently pulling his fingers free from Stiles’s body. He made a sleepy noise of protest, and Peter shushed him.

Floating in a satisfied haze, he didn’t register Peter leaving, although he definitely noticed when Peter returned, washcloth again in hand to clean him up. Stiles made a content noise as Peter tucked him into the werewolf’s side, and nuzzled Peter’s chest under his cheek.

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

His last thought was that Peter sounded fond.

 

***

 

When Stiles blinked bleary eyes open the next morning, he revelled in the feeling of liquid relaxation as he tried to recall the events of last night. A minor twinge as he stretched brought the memories back in vivid Technicolour 

He was alone in bed, which was probably for the best, even if it left him with a cold squirmy feeling in his gut that he refused to name. Instead, he got up, his naked skin pebbling at the brush of cool air, and dressed in the clothes laid out on the dresser. His own were nowhere in sight. After a pit stop to the bathroom, he wandered down the hall.

Peter looked up from where he was cooking breakfast, and nodded amiably. “Coffee’s made, so help yourself.”

Stiles shuffled to coffeemaker, and was grateful that two cups and the sugar bowl were beside the pot. He groaned at the first sip, the brew bursting across his taste buds. He barely caught himself from sarcastically saying ‘I love you’.

Probably not a good idea after last night.

He was quiet as Peter plated breakfast for them both, and it wasn’t until he sat down with a second cup of coffee that he realized what Peter had made.

Chocolate chip pancakes.

“Have any syrup?” If anyone asked, his croaky rasp was from sleep.

Peter shook his head, lifting a bite from his plate up to Stiles’s mouth. “Try it this way, first.”

Stiles licked his lips, unsure, but leaned forward and delicately accepted the bite from Peter’s fork. As he chewed, he tasted a magical combination of chocolate-banana-starch. “Oh my God, that is amazing. You’re right, it doesn’t need syrup.”

Peter smirked triumphantly. They finished the sinfully delicious pancakes quietly, trading the occasional bit of sarcastic commentary. It was nice, for them, and Stiles didn’t want it to end, but . . . “So, about last night,” Stiles began, fiddling with his fork.

“Stiles, I need you to understand something.” At that, Stiles braced himself to hear that it didn’t mean anything, that it had been a mistake, that Peter would fuck him again if he could keep it a secret—“I’m a werewolf, a born one, and we don’t view sex the same way you do.”

Well. That was an unexpected left turn.

“What does that mean, practically speaking?” Stiles glanced at Peter before looking back down at his hands. He picked at his nails.

Peter reached across the table and tapped the back of his hand. Stiles froze. “It means that, for us, sex and sexuality are normal. Natural. If someone masturbates, I can hear it. If a couple has sex, I can smell their sweat and come. Even if they shower, the scent of satiation lingers. And that’s as normal as smelling the coffee you drink at breakfast and hearing your heartbeat. They don’t carry value judgements because they’re normal parts of day-to-day living. Because of my heightened senses, I’ve always known that you’re a very sexual person, and that you find release fairly frequently.”

A violent blush burned in his cheeks. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but nothing came out. Peter sighed. “Stiles, it was worse for me to experience your second-hand frustration than it would have been for you to simply take care of it. I understand that, for you, embarrassment played a large part in choosing to deny yourself. I’m trying to tell you that you never needed to, because there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Were you ashamed every time you emptied your bladder? Of the way your heartbeat sped with excitement while playing video games? No, of course not. But all those activities are equivalent, simply the business of living.”

After a moment, Stiles nodded. He thought he understood. As well as he was able, anyway. “You kept trying to tell me,” he realized.

“Yes, although you seemed determined to take everything I said the wrong way.” Peter gave him an unimpressed look.

“Sorry for not realizing there was a werewolf/ human culture divide,” Stiles snarked. Peter nodded, all faux-magnanimity. “So, last night.”

“What about it?” Peter asked softly.

“For starters, you didn’t . . . well, finish. At least, not that I was aware of.” Peter nodded, agreeing. “It just. I’m not that guy—my partner’s pleasure matters to me.”

“Last night was about you, sweetheart, and what you needed.”

Stiles was going to pretend that his heart didn’t skip at the nickname. “So that means . . .”

“It means that last night can mean whatever you want it to mean.” Peter’s tone was carefully neutral. “It can remain a one-time-only event, the result of heightened emotion and the need for gratification. Or,” he paused meaningfully, “it can be something more.”

Stiles reached out for the pack bond between him and Peter, and felt nothing but sincerity from the werewolf, an honest desire for more. He tugged gently at the strand connecting them, and felt an answering pull. “I think I’d like that,” Stiles whispered.

Peter’s gaze was heavy, his expression intense and a little hungry.

Stiles didn’t look away.


End file.
